


Ruckus

by santiagone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Hate to Love, Humor, Romance, basically fitzsimmons hating each other but not really hating each other yay, basically just shenanigans all around, fitz is that one neighbour who just has to make loads of noise at inappropriate times, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5853658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their story has the sort of beginning that every love story should start with: a loud and demanding knock on the door.</p><p>She glares at him, and he swears he sees her nostrils flare. “You’ve been hammering and drilling and screwing things all night!”</p><p>He leans on the door frame. “I wouldn’t call it screwing,” he says with a small smirk, and he’s rewarded with a pretty flush from her. </p><p>or,</p><p>Fitz makes entirely too much noise at three in the morning. Jemma takes it upon herself to storm up there and yell at him every time. For the good of her neighbours, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruckus

**Author's Note:**

> I return to school again tomorrow, so have a fun little one-shot! Also, this could count towards me hitting eighty-five followers on Tumblr - thank you!

Their story has the sort of beginning that every love story should start with: a loud and demanding knock on the door.

It’s not so much the fact that Fitz actually has a visitor which is alarming (although it should be, as Mack says he’s somewhat of a recluse these days), but more the rather odd time for him to be receiving said knock on the door, being as it is, currently, three in the morning.

So it’s with a loud groan of protest that he swings open the door, squinting at the disturbance, and not even the fact that she’s very, very pretty is enough to sway him for scowling at her.

“It’s three in the morning.”

The woman looks him straight in the eye, unflinching, her arms crossed and one eyebrow crooked. “Yes, I’m well aware.”

“Some people are trying to sleep,” he says, sternly, and she has the audacity to roll her eyes at him. Roll her eyes at _ him _ _!_ Leopold Fitz! The very man who is stood in the doorway, wearing his oldest monkey pyjamas, and.. oh. Maybe he can see why she’s not quite so intimidated now.

“I  _ know _ ,” she stresses. “As you just pointed out, it’s three in the morning, and since the landlord here is obviously  _ incompetent _ \- ” he raises his eyebrows, “ - I’ve taken it upon myself to come here and tell you to be quiet myself.”

Fitz splutters at her, mouth falling into an indignant ‘o’. “Me? Be  _ quiet _ ? I’ve not been doing anything!”

She glares at him, and he swears he sees her nostrils flare. “You’ve been hammering and drilling and screwing things all night!”

He leans on the door frame. “I wouldn’t call it  _ screwing _ _,”_ he says with a small smirk, and he’s rewarded with a pretty flush from her. 

“Well, whatever you’re doing up here, it needs to stop. _Some_ people have important things to do tomorrow, and no one can get to sleep with all the noise going on,” she spits out, and before he can come up with his own witty retort, she’s spinning on her heel and storming back down the hall.

“Rude,” he mutters, shutting the door.

 

/   
  
  
  


The next time, he’s not surprised when there’s someone banging on the door. Instead, he’s prepared when he swings it open to grin at her, this time dressed in something a little more refined than monkey pyjamas. And by refined, he means a simple t-shirt and flannel bottoms, but hey, who’s judging?

“Hello,” he says airily, enjoying the way her cheeks are flushed in annoyance. “Bit early for a chat, isn’t it?”

“You know perfectly well why I’m here,” she tells him evenly, although she somehow manages to look menacing in bunny slippers and a night robe. 

He blinks innocently at her. “Why?” 

“You’re doing it again. Working at ungodly hours of the morning.”

“Ungodly hours of the morning is when I work best,” he answers defensively. “It’s good for my inspiration! It’s like how some people feel particularly inspired in the shower, only for me it’s-”

“I don’t care!” she throws out, half exasperation, half fury. It’s an odd look, but he thinks she pulls it off quite well. She looks about to yell at him, but then she seems to gather herself together, and she gives him a polite nod instead. “Please be considerate of others. Thank you.”

And then she’s gone, and he’s left with traces of lavender shampoo and an unfinished project waiting for him on the kitchen table. He shuts the door.

 

/

 

The fifth time, he swings open the door before the third knock, and he can’t help but smile. She’s fuming, tonight, he can tell. He’s prepared for the usual process of passive-aggressive, false politeness, gritting her teeth and trying to nicely tell him to tone it down. What he’s not prepared for is the slew of insults she slings at him.

“Leopold Fitz, it is  _ three _ in the morning. Three!”

He blinks at her, witty comeback momentarily forgotten. “You know my name.”

“Of course I know your bloody name, it haunts my dreams each night,  _ along _ with the ruckus that you seem to be so insistent on creating,” she says furiously, throwing her hands up. “What are you even doing in there?”

“Important scientific research!” he defends. “It’s none of your business!”

“When you’re waking up all the people in this building, it becomes my business,” she retorts, and before he can move she’s taking a step forward and jabbing a finger into his chest, so hard he thinks it might bruise his poor skin.

“Ow!”

She’s so close he can make out every tiny detail of the amber in her eyes, her face pulled up to his and her finger pressed firmly into his chest. He takes a sharp breath without quite thinking about it, and she smirks.

“Fix the noise,” she says in a low voice. “Get soundproof walls, move away, abandon your project, I don’t care. I want it gone.”

She moves back, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, and she smiles an innocent smile at him. “Thank you, Mr. Fitz.”

As she’s disappearing down the hallway, he catches his breath and leans around the doorway. “You know my name!” he yells after her.

“And you don’t!” is the returning shout. “Deal with it!”

 

/

 

So, naturally, the next time he opens the door, he smiles at her.

“Miss Simmons.”

The woman - Jemma, he’s learned - looks taken aback for a moment, before recollecting herself and glowering at him.

“Mr. Fitz.”

Feeling quite victorious, he continues, “What brings you here so early this morning?”

Oh, and if looks could kill, he’d be dead. Several times over. And buried deep. 

Jemma takes a breath. “You know why.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” he tells her, and it’s really quite amusing, seeing how many different expressions he can throw Jemma in for. 

She crosses her arms. “Abandon your project.”

“No can do, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” she huffs. “How about soundproofing?”

He shrugs. “Not enough money.”

“Moving out?”

“Observe the previous statement,” he counters, and this time it’s his turn to cross his arms. “Besides, I’m not sure you'd really want me to do that.”

She blinks, obviously stumped, and his smug expression only grows the longer she tries to summon up words.

“What?” she manages eventually, and he leans forward.

“You don’t have to keep coming up here, Jemma. You could file a complaint, and it’d be over and done with in an instant. You could just ignore me and let somebody else come and deal with it. That blonde woman across the hall is  _ very _ scary.”

“If you think Bobbi’s scary, you’ve clearly never met Melinda May.”

He pauses momentarily to consider this, and then ends up shaking his head insistently at her. “The  _ point  _ is, you like harassing me. You like storming up here every other morning to have a five minute argument. Maybe you even look forward to it.”

She scoffs. “Oh, let’s not get too cocky.”

Fitz can feel his features broadening into a ridiculous grin of victory. “So you admit it!”

“I did no such thing,” Jemma says haughtily. “You are… are..  _ ridiculous _ , and I’m half beginning to think that you’re making all this noise just for a chance to see  _ me _ .”

He glares defiantly at her. “Never.”

“Good!” she exclaims, cheeks flushed in anger (or effort, he’s not entirely sure at this point). 

“Fine!”

“ _ Great! _ ”

“You are the worst,” he declares, and he’s rewarded by her lifting her head up defiantly.

“And so are you.”

And yeah, he’d normally be a bit worried, but he knows that he isn’t imagining Jemma’s (quite frankly, horrible) attempt at her hiding her smile as she hurries down the hallway. 

He shuts the door.

 

/

 

Okay, maybe some of what she said was true, because he doesn’t stop working at three in the morning. He picks different days to do it, because he’s learned that she likes patterns and that it’ll annoy her to end if he does it in an unorganised and unexpected fashion. He finishes his project faster than any other one before, and before he knows it he’s bringing home more things and working harder than ever, something his boss is immensely pleased with.

And yes, perhaps sometimes he wonders how her lips would feel against his, or wakes up from an..  _ inspiring _ dream with his mouth forming her name and the sheets twisted around, but these are all side effects of hating Jemma Simmons, he’s sure.

Still, conversations with Jemma are certainly unique. Her insults are as sharp as ever, and he thinks he’s not supposed to have noticed that she’s started wearing lip gloss for their nightly arguments, and sometimes when he catches her on his way to work, they’ll even share a few mutual glares.

One time, he makes the mistake of heading out to a bar with Mack and Hunter.

“Hey Turbo, you feeling okay? You’ve been looking tired recently,” asks Mack, somewhat concerned as he wards Hunter away from his drink.

“I’m fine,” Fitz says, although he does feel sort of drowsy. “It’s my bloody neighbour, Jemma Simmons, she keeps telling me to knock off the noise.”

“Ah,” says Hunter, a knowing look in his eyes. “It’s about a woman. It’s always about a woman.”

“Not _always_.”

“Whatever, Mack. Listen, you’ve just gotta keep trying,” advises Hunter. “Girls like it when a man’s determined. She’ll come around eventually.”

Mack rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him, Fitz. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Hey! It worked on Bobbi!”

“Bobbi hates you,” Fitz and Mack say together.

Hunter frowns into his drink. “No she doesn’t.”

“She does,” Mack corrects. 

Fitz nods in agreement. “She really does. And anyway, Jemma’s different. We hate each other. We can’t have a conversation without shouting at each other.”

Hunter shrugs and knocks back a drink of beer. “Extreme sexual tension?”

Mack sighs and shakes his head. “As I said: ignore him. If she’s really bothering you, just come bring your projects into work. It’s open all night anyway, no one will care if you stay for a while. You won’t bother anyone there.”

Fitz opens his mouth, and he’s looking for an excuse before he even realises it. “Oh, but.. All my tools are at my flat..” he finishes lamely.

They stare skeptically at him for a while. And then Mack turns to Hunter.

“You might be right about the sexual tension.”

 

/

 

Conversations with Jemma Simmons might go a little something like this:

_ “I hate you.” _

_ “Yes, we established this last time, Jemma.” _

or, 

_ “Have I mentioned how much I hate you-” _

_ “Only every time we talk, but if it makes you feel better I don’t really think that’s stopping you.” _

_ “-because I do hate you.” _

or perhaps, 

_ “Leopold Fitz, what could you possibly be doing at three in the morning?” _

_ “Wouldn’t you like to know?” _

and once, even, 

_ “I’m rather sick of you.” _

_ “I’m rather not.” _

_ “I’m rather sure you should stop this racket.” _

_ “I’m rather… Wait. Is rather even a word anymore?” _

_ “I’m… not sure, actually. But it doesn’t change how much I detest you?” _

_ “Are you  rather  sure of that?” _

_ “Ugh, Fitz!” _

 

/

 

One morning, after many nights of him annoying the hell out of Jemma Simmons, he opens the door with a neatly lined insult planned and ready to go.. only he doesn’t see the indignant girl he’s become so familiar with. Instead there’s a brunette, undeniably pretty, but with none of Jemma’s spark or stance or anything inherently _Simmons_ about her. Not that he’s comparing them.

“Hi,” says the brunette bluntly.

“Um.. hey,” he manages after a minute.

“I’m Daisy Johnson - twenty four, trained by Melinda May, friends with Jemma Simmons and Bobbi Morse, and I will kick your sorry ass to the moon and back if you don’t stop making so much noise.” 

Fitz can only stare, mouth agape, and eventually she adds, “Also, I know your Wi-Fi password. Did I mention that I used to be a hacker?”

“Okay..” he says slowly, and she blinks at him for a moment.

“Huh. Jemma said you were more annoying than this.”

Jemma’s name brings him back in line. “You’re friends with Jemma?”

“Mhhmm,” Daisy nods, arms crossed in a stance that vaguely reminds him of both Bobbi and Jemma. Maybe they have a club. A club where they learn how to cross arms and generally be very scary and rude to poor engineers at three in the morning. He’s still wondering where they hold club meetings when Skye finishes, “She’s at the hospital.”

He starts, and something electric fires down his veins. “She is? Is she okay?”

There’s a long silence, and then, to his bewilderment, Daisy bursts into laughter. “She’s a  _ doctor _ , Fitz. She works there. We were supposed to be having a girls night but she got called in for a late shift, so now I’m the one having to yell your pasty ass down.”

“Oh.” For some reason, he feels sort of numb. If he were more honest with himself, he might realise it as relief. “Oh, okay.”

Daisy rolls her eyes. “You kids are crazy weird. Anyway, I came up here to say aloha, kindly threaten you to shut the hell up, and then report back to Jemma later as via the Girl Code. You and Jemma seem to have a concerning amount of fun flirting with each other like this, so I’ll let it go as long as you keep quiet for tonight, and every other time I decide to spend the night here.”

Fitz nods his agreement, somewhat dumbfoundedly, and just when he thinks she’s gone, she appears suddenly again and holds two fingers to her eyes, before jabbing them at him.

“I’m watching you. Just so you know, in case you hurt Jemma. I wasn’t kidding when I said I know your Wi-Fi password.”

And then she’s gone (actually gone, this time), and this time when he closes the door he’s left blinking in confusion. 

 

/

 

And the next three o’clock intervention, Jemma stands at his doorway, plump lips curved into a smug smile, eyebrows raised to the heavens.

“I hear you were concerned for me last night.”

He tilts his head, scrunches up his features like he’s got no clue what she’s talking about (although his heart still does a funny lurch when he pictures her, pale in a hospital bed). “Your sources must not be very reliable.”

“Are you  _ sure _ about that?”

“Pretty sure,” he says. “Although, I do recall that your unreliable source seemed to know a great deal about me.. It’s rather strange, considering I’ve never met her before. She seems to be under the impression that we’re flirting.”

She crooks an eyebrow. “And are we?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.  _ Are _ we?”

Jemma huffs, and she seems about to stamp her foot like a petulant child. “I hate you.”

“I’m starting to think those are your favourite words.”

“No, just the most relevant ones.”

“Ah.”

 

/

 

It’s been two days of him clattering around his flat, and when nobody bangs on his door, he finally makes up his mind (after a lot of debate and coaxing from Hunter, which is the first of many signs Fitz is out of his mind), he makes the daunting trip to her door, and he knocks on it.

His first thought upon her opening it is how strange it is that their roles are reversed. The second thought is that she somehow manages to look prettier every time he sees her. And the third thought is that she looks very, very sick.

“Hi,” he says awkwardly.

“Hello, Fitz,” she says, somehow still managing to sound fiery even through her raspy voice. “I’m sorry I’ve been letting you keep the whole block up for two nights. I’m ill.”

“I can tell,” he agrees, until he realises how that could potentially sound, and he quickly tacks on, “Sorry to hear that.”

She smiles at him. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

They stand in awkward silence for a while, and eventually Jemma coughs lightly.

“Would it be overstepping if I asked to come in?” he tries.

“Yes,” she responds, but she lets him in anyway and shuts the door behind him. 

“Woah,” are his first words, even though her flat is really nothing spectacular. It’s neat, it’s cute, it’s practical, it’s all of the things Fitz expects it to be. The only mess to be seen is the abandoned cup and kettle in the kitchen, accompanied only by a box of tea, a book and a packet of tissues.

“You were already awake,” he observes, surprised.

“Of course. Do you really think I’d get up to let you in otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” he grins, “I get the impression that you’ve become quite fond of me.”

“Wherever do you get that idea from?” Jemma asks coyly, pushing a strand of hair out of her face and pulling out another mug for him without even asking. 

“Well, you did let me into your flat,” he points out, accepting the mug of tea she pushes towards him, and watching in an odd sort of fascination as she pours her own cup. It’s odd, because she’s snotty and flushed and sweating, but he can’t quite look away.

“Perhaps I’ve poisoned the tea.”

“You wouldn’t dare spoil perfectly good tea,” he replies, and her laugh is surprising, but sweet. At his victorious look, she offers him a glare and then smiles into her cup when she thinks he isn’t looking.

“Don’t get me wrong. I still hate you. Just.. marginally less,” she says, and he holds the tea out to her.

“Cheers to marginals.”

“Cheers, Fitz.”

 

/

 

And, several nights later, she turns up at his door with a small bag over her shoulder.

“Why are you here?” he asks, confused. “I haven’t made any noise for five days.”

“That’s why I suspected that you might have caught my cold,” she says, pulling a tissue box out of her bag. “I’m a doctor.”

“Perhaps you’ve poisoned the tissues,” he says, a mischievous smile curling up his lips.

“Perhaps I have,” she returns, and he groans as she makes her way in without being welcomed. 

“You were  _ supposed _ to say ‘I wouldn’t dare spoil perfectly good tissues’ as a way to mirror our conversation the other night,” he complains.

“Hmm. But I don’t particularly care for tissues. And, this would mean I might actually get a full night’s sleep seven days of a week. Also, why would I care to mirror our conversation from the other night? We’ve already had it once, why do we have to have it again?”

“Because.. because…” He follows her to his kitchen, slumping on the chair and wondering how Jemma’s already managed to lessen his headache by just being there. “It’s mystical, it’s poetic, it’s romantic?”

Jemma raises her eyebrows at him and sets a can of soup onto the bench. “When have we ever been any of those things?”

And that, is very true.

 

/

 

It happens at three in the morning, just like everything else, after fifteen minutes of him purposely knocking everything over and creating too much noise.

She appears at his door, looking exasperated, as per usual. But he’s come to learn that there are different types of exasperation, and the one that Jemma’s displaying is mixed with a healthy dose of fondness.

“Oops,” he says unapologetically.

“Oops indeed,” she confirms, features unamused by eyes dancing with challenge.

He locks his gaze with hers, and he enjoys the way neither of them back down. “Are you finally going to report me?” 

“I might do,” she says lightly, unwaveringly, perfectly (but Fitz might be a bit bias). “I’ve had enough of you.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Really? Because I can’t get enough of you.”

And with one loud groan and an accompanying eyeroll, Jemma steps forward and captures his lips with hers. She might be grumbling about his absurd cheesiness in their spare gasps of air, but he’s positive she doesn’t mind so much when he moves down to press kisses down her neck.

“I still hate you,” she manages breathily into his ear. “But only marginally.”

He thinks that might be an accurate representation of their relationship - except not, because somewhere between opening his door that first morning so many nights ago and now, being the reason for Jemma’s pleased sighs, he’s fallen in love with the girl down the hall.

This time, he doesn't have to shut the door.

(and that night, it’s not Fitz’s project keeping the whole block up)

  
  


/

 

So as you can see, this love story is rather complex, and dramatic, and filled with heart-wrenching moments. 

Or not. 

But when is a love story ever that way? Sometimes love is found in the strangest of places. Leopold Fitz and Jemma Simmons just happen to find their love through thin walls, hurled insults, and arguments at three in the morning. After all, there are many ways to tell a love story. This is just one of them.


End file.
